


Black and Gold

by Berrypickers (orphan_account)



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: X & Y | Pokemon X & Y Versions
Genre: M/M, cafeshipping, hotdadshipping, megashipping - Freeform, perfectworldshipping - Freeform, professor hotbabe and bara hedgehog
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2013-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-31 11:55:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1031453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Berrypickers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes it isn’t fate that draws people together so much as impeccable fashion sense and pure stubbornness. Just how did Lysandre and Sycamore meet, and what were their lives like before Team Flare’s fall?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Is this not where you speak of beauty and grace and all those wonderful things found in quaint forests?”

Lysandre’s lips twitched downwards. “Clever, aren’t you?” The idiot— young, too young, and too much of a fool to really be let out on his own— flashed a vapid smirk at him. He rubbed a thumb along the menu’s edge, following the ornate scrollwork. The dishes were familiar, overly so, and painfully derivative of the more expensive restaurants that Lysandre found himself devoid of.

“Sometimes,” Henri purred. “But I doubt I’m the first to note your… flights of fancy.” The man leaned forward, his blond hair artfully tussled and his eyes, bluer than cornflowers, open a little too wide to be sincere. “I do not mean to be rude, Lysandre.”

“And yet,” he murmured, “you have expertly managed it.” He did not imagine the wince. “May I suggest the kelpsy canapés? I believe it fitting to your personality.” The wince turned to a light frown; Lysandre covered his pleasure with a droll smile. “I, of course, do not mean to offend,” he returned. “I merely guess at your tastes.”

Henri’s jaw clenched, and Lysandre wondered how many men experienced the treat of seeing the boy irritated. “I do not wish—”

“For this to be painful? Miserable, perhaps? I would say it is a bit late for that. Did Jonquet truly believe I’d be amused by you?” He contemplated tossing the menu on the table, but it seemed too much like a tantrum for his tastes. “A boy from— where? One of his executives’ sons? I did not think him a fan of prostitution.”

A deep flush ghosted over Henri’s face, settling in around his collar. “I am not a prostitute,” the boy hissed.

“You’re right,” he said, placing the menu on the table. It covered the porcelain plate. “A prostitute is sincere. I believe I shall take my leave.”

Henri said not a word as Lysandre picked up his coat and strode to the door. The boy was likely contemplating the scandal that would ensue the moment the socialites in the building found the time to gossip. Abandoned after being offered up like meat: he could only imagine the boy being secreted away to some village for the next year as the scandal faded from memory.

Lysandre recognized the heat in his belly for what it was. Jonquet was far from his most brilliant enemy, but the man possessed a base cunning and fewer scruples than polite society dictated. He could see how the man’s brain had worked— Lysandre’s taste for beauty far outran any other public trait— but Jonquet’s own limitations had sabotaged him. There was beauty in sincerity, and mimed interest only charmed in theatre.

“Lysandre.” The holo wavered for a moment before solidifying. The car lot possessed none of the restaurant’s bustle. “I see your dinner has faired poorly, unless M’sieur Favre finds cars better décor?”

The flicker of annoyance became subsumed by a sigh. “M’sieur Favre found the dinner unpalatable.” He glanced around, seeing no one in earshot. “You knew.”

Jean grinned. “Is there any reason to think I did not?” The older man settled into his chair, a closed book in his lap. “I assumed meeting a handsome young man such as Henri might cool your recent tantrums. I suppose I owe the boy an apology.”

Lysandre snorted. “I doubt you’ll find him in Lumiose by the end of the week.” He eyed Jean, irritated. “Though that will hardly stop you from trying to ‘comfort’ the boy. Your efforts will be rebuffed.”

Jean shrugged. “It is the chase that excites, dear Lysandre. I do not know what I’d do with Henri if he said yes. Likely leave.” The man waved a hand. “But that is not what I’m here for, as much as I enjoy your misery.”

Lysandre settled against his car, the cool metal soaking through even his suit’s layers. “I wait with bated breath.”

“A certain M’sieur Sycamore has been spotted in Kalos.”

Something curled in his stomach, cool and sparking. “I fail to see why I would be interested in an itinerant researcher.”

A sigh came over the holo. “You sulk like a teenager. Sycamore’s work on trainer and Pokemon relationships is ground-breaking. You know this, Lysandre.”

“And you think— what? That we should charm him into the company? Others have already tried, Jean.” The man looked triumphant, and Lysandre realized he’d walked into the trap. “The man visiting Kalos is nothing to be interested in.”

Jean remained silent, a smile curving his lips, and Lysandre’s mind whirred away at the problem. Jean must have known about it for a time— there was no reason to think he’d share such otherwise useless information unless he’d developed an interest and plan. “Why is he here?” he demanded.

“Studying,” Jean supplied before going silent once again. Lysandre contemplated driving to the man’s house and strangling the answer out of him.

“I shall contain my surprise.” He adjusted his cravat with a free hand. “Where is he?”

“Parfum Palace.”

“He wants something, doesn’t he?” His knowledge on Sycamore was admittedly thin. One of Oak’s better students, the man had explored the evolutionary effects of friendship on Pokemon. Some dismissed his work as frivolous, but business had always been interested. There was money to be made in products that could, quantifiably, increase friendship in scientific ways.

Lysandre’s interest was more sanguine: Pokemon were fascinating.

Jean didn’t reply but Lysandre didn’t need him to. “Sycamore is courting funding. He’s been here before, but never to where the wealth is.” He eyed Jean. “You know what he wants. I suppose one of my little spies heard?” The smile that came across his face was unkind. “I told you they were worth the investment.”

“Consider your lesson taught, Lysandre. One of your little birds served the man as he attempted to coax Kalos’ aristocracy into funding a public research facility. Needless to say, Lord Pennypinch sent him on his way with nary a handshake.”

“Perfect,” he purred. “His Lordship is a fool, but I shall send him flowers for it. You have the letter already written, I assume?” Jean’s nod came quick. “Send it. Clear my schedule as much as you can for tomorrow. M’sieur Sycamore will likely need convincing to accept donations from business, particularly one such as mine.”

Jean’s eyebrows sailed upward. “Your personal attention, Lysandre?”

“I do not wish to risk offending him. We wish for him to join us, do we not?” The man said nothing and Lysandre could feel his doubt. “Send it, Jean. And do make sure the restaurant is better than the one I endured tonight.”

“Of course,” he murmured. “Jonquet has such horrid taste. I shall send the letter and an escort for M’sieur Sycamore. Attempt not to send any others into exile tonight, Lysandre.” The holo flickered and went dark.

He leaned against the car as he navigated the holo, picking through the search results. Sycamore was a particularly handsome man, though his clothing hung poorly on his frame. Owlish eyes peered out from behind black-rimmed glasses and Lysandre wondered if he truly needed them: they appeared in very few of his photos. Lysandre could appreciate vanity, but there was more beauty in sincerity. He closed the windows with a sharp flick of his wrist and entered his car.

Whatever Sycamore’s secrets, they were to be delved in time.


	2. Chapter 2

Augustine blinked over his breakfast, a sausage only a few centimetres from his mouth. Impulse took over, and the 'eeeeh' sound he made came out particularly unflattering. The man opposite-- whatever his name was, something Parisot-- raised a cool eyebrow. He tried not to flush as he placed his fork, sausage and all, on the plate. “Ah, pardon me.” The napkin proved a mediocre cover for his embarrassment, but it was better than looking at the man straight-on. “Would you repeat that?”

 

“M'sieur Belisle wishes to meet you.” He tried not to choke on air. “A friend informed him that you were investigating avenues for funding. M'sieur Belisle feels he could help.”

 

'Investigating' was too kind a word for the grovelling he'd ended up doing at the Palace. Not that it'd helped as he'd been shooed out within the hour, His Lordship's frown scolding him like a foolish child. Whatever impressed the man, it certainly was not Professor Oak's name. “I am not for hire,” he said gravely.

 

The man's eyes were covered by dark sunglasses but Augustine could still feel the stare. “He does not want to hire you, M'sieur.”

 

“...Oh.” He fussed with the napkin, folding it. “Ah.” The napkin soon ran out of ways to fold and he winced, forcing himself to look at the man. “How soon does he wish to meet?” Stubble bristled over his cheeks and the usual morning grime hugged close. He'd seen pictures of Belisle, the man dressed as though the entirety of Lumiose sat nearby, judging.

 

“There is a car waiting outside.”

 

Augustine frowned. “I'm afraid I'm unprepared for any adventures today.” He washed his voice of any irritation-- the week had been packed with presumption and arrogance. A few more pieces of it would hardly be the end of him.

 

“We will wait.” Lysandre Labs was evidently staffed by robots.

 

“Then you will be waiting a time,” he returned tartly. The sausage tasted like ash in his mouth, and washing it down with orange juice did not hide the taste. Kalos was a land of games and he wondered if he missed it as much as he thought. His return had, so far, been heralded by an exhausting journey, poor roads, a rude and stingy man, and capped off by presumptuous robots and their master.

 

“I will inform the driver.” The man stood up, his huge frame accentuated by the dark suit he wore. People watched him from the corner of their eyes as he strode out of the hotel's cosy series of breakfast nooks. Augustine refrained from throwing his hands up in despair, but it was a near thing.

 

He took his frustrations out on his food. Of all the things he missed, Kalosian food had been one of the biggest. Unova tried to imitate it but they lacked the discipline for it; many other regions didn't even bother. Kalos' smallest and cheapest cafés put more work into the food than many of other regions' best restaurants.

 

Parisot wasn't back by the time he finished, and Augustine took that as a sign to flee the room. Most people were flooding into the room now, and he encountered very few people on his way up to his room. The building stood at only a few stories, its outside done in the traditional style with stone. Wide open windows decorated the front and he forced himself to resist the impulse to spy and see if he could find the car. It wouldn't be hard to find, he wagered.

 

His own room stood tucked into a corner on the second floor, the windows' light missing its door. Fumbling through his pockets for his key, he missed the man lingering far on the other side of the floor. The room's décor followed the trend of the rest of the hotel: warm accents, airy windows, and high ceilings made the room seem twice as big.

 

The maids hadn't been through yet, thankfully. His bags' contents overflowed all over the bed while shirts and pants decorated pieces of furniture, thrown there as he desperately tried to find the proper outfit to meet lords and ladies. A light flush settled on his cheeks as the humiliation flooded back.

 

He collected the clothes and tried to separate the dirty pieces from the clean. There were few that had avoided the stench of travel, and fewer still that looked like anything one should wear to meeting a billionaire. He tossed them on the pillow before ducking into the bathroom. The cheap bottles of hotel-brand shampoo and conditioner smelled too floral for his own tastes, but his own had martyred themselves somewhere on the train from Hoenn to Unova. Scraping off their remains from his ties had been an adventure.

 

Aramis had curled up on his coat, snickering in his own way as Vivienne dove into the muck, the white slime covering her deep brown coat. She'd looked at him with big eyes, begging for thankful pets. The bath afterwards had been a group affair.

 

He took his time, enjoying the warmth as the mirror fogged up. The tile felt cool against his feet when he left and the towels, fluffy and white, hung loose from his frame. He adjusted them into a make-shift toga as he leaned forward to look at himself in the mirror. A quick swipe of a hand revealed a pair of bleary grey eyes peering back.

 

He looked like a Trubbish in human form. Dark circles ringed his eyes, making him look like a particularly alarmed Zigzagoon. He scratched at his chin, the stubble harsh against his skin. Lathering his face up hid the sharpness, though the semi-dull blade did a poor job of fixing the situation. A solid knock at the door disrupted the routine and he stared at it for a moment before tossing his razor into the sink. Had he put up the 'Do Not Disturb' sign? He drew a blank and cursed.

 

“Ah, I'm sorry, mademoiselle!” He tweaked his toga before opening the door a crack, his face still covered in a layer of soap. “I must have forgot--”

 

“You didn't,” Parisot said. “You forgot to lock the door, however.” The man looked unperturbed by the stare he received. “I sent your clothing along to be washed.”

 

“...They do not have those facilities here.” Augustine leaned back, trying to hide himself behind the door. The soap concealed his bright flush, or at least he hoped so.

 

“There is a dry cleaners nearby,” the man replied with a shrug. If he shut the door, he wondered, would the man leave eventually? Or would he merely seat himself and wait?

 

If all Lysandre Labs' employees were so charming, it may be time to flee the country, he reflected.

 

“Thank you, M'sieur, for your... efforts. However, my rooms are _private_. As are the things within them.” He thought of Aramis and Vivienne, along with all the others, tucked away in their pokeballs on his discarded belt. “I must request that you leave.”

 

Parisot watched him for a moment before speaking. “I shall wait outside, then.” Augustine imagined people wandering to their rooms and pausing staring at the black-suited giant parked outside his door. He was not a petty man, but there was some pleasure at the thought of security being called.

 

“It is appreciated.”

 

Belisle possessed enough money to construct forty facilities and not even notice the cost. Whatever his issues with employees, the man could single-handedly create a research culture in Kalos. For a region so cutting-edge in some ways, it lagged behind the rest of the world. The public universities were sub-par, more degree factories for low-level administration. Those of any import or wealth were schooled outside the region.

 

It depressed Augustine to think he'd only just escaped being a clerk.

 

He took a few more swipes at his stubble before surrendering. Any feeling of refreshment was now covered by a sulkiness that he thought long abandoned. He hurriedly dressed, half-convinced that Parisot would wander in to inform him of some new 'favour'. Augustine stumbled over his tie, cursing the worn material as it slipped free from his grip each time he tried to knot it.

 

Flopping on the bed didn't help with the problem, but the stress that'd been building ever since he'd come back seemed to flow into the downy bedding; the pokeballs on his belt dug into his hips, and he rolled on to his front to relieve the pressure.

 

He lay there for a time, his tie undone, his shoes off, and his shirt haphazardly buttoned. “What am I even doing?” he wondered aloud. No one responded, blessedly, and he contemplated a nap. The rudeness of the gesture kept him awake and he pushed himself to his feet, forcing himself to dress.

 

He gathered his toiletries and dug out his paperwork. Scribbles covered each page, most of them fragmented thoughts on this or that. They were in garbled shorthand, something he had years of studying under Oak for. One learned shorthand or perished under the sheer weight of information the man rained down upon his assistants.

 

He lost himself in the words. The wind brushed through his hair, drying it even as droplets toppled down along the strands to soak the pages. The few attempts at brushing the hair back failed and Augustine allowed himself to fall into his work.

 

A knock interrupted him and he knew Parisot waited on the other side. “Come in,” he called back. A parade of his clothes and burly men swaggered through his hotel room, each of the four men dropping off a pile of carefully folded clothes. His own foul mood dismissed the question of paying them back. Belisle could take it as penance for sending rude semi-thugs.

 

The thugs stayed in a line as they watched him for a response; they received none, and Parisot stepped forward, as though prepared for a chastising. “M'sieur.” Augustine looked up before he could stop himself. “We await you outside.”

 

He made a show of looking at his watch. “I shall be there momentarily,” he said airily. “I apologize for the delay.” Parisot's eyebrows soared and Augustine at least had the grace to flush, even as he tried to ignore it.

 

He braced himself but nothing came. “It has been no problem, M'sieur. There is no rush,” the man lied, and he wondered if it was for his sake or theirs. Either way, Augustine smiled and gave them a nod of thanks as they left the room.

 

It was embarrassment that fuelled his packing. Everything was folded and creased, even his briefs, and he refused to think too much about it. The last person to do his laundry other than him was his mother. Aramis' ball squirmed as he worked and all the soothing noises in the world did not stop it.

 

Checking out was a quick affair punctuated with hisses to Aramis, pleading with him to stay in the pokeball. He took them with ill-grace and Augustine could feel the ball radiate displeasure. “In the car,” he murmured to it, ignoring the glances he got. The ball wiggled one more time before stilling.

 

The sun shone brighter than it had any right to. People milled about, some heading for cafés while others peered in at boutiques. Camphrier's mansion loomed in the north, its peak visible from all over town. Cars puttered by; most could charitably be called 'vintage' while others escaped such care and fell into 'clunker'.

 

He glanced around, searching for the familiar black behemoth that had spent the morning as his shadow, but nothing stood out except a particularly sleek-looking black car. Belisle was evidently a man of simple tastes. He hesitated for a moment before striding forward. The car responded to his approach by letting out a low purr. Parisot stepped out from the driver's side and opened the trunk. Augustine tried to peer into the car when he walked by the windows, but they were tinted black as coals.

 

Parisot lifted the bags as though they were feathery pillows. He glanced between the man and the car and couldn't help but wonder if Belisle thought he was going to enter Lumiose under assault. He somehow doubted Parisot dealt with baggage and researchers on a daily basis. There was a soft hiss and a rush of air from behind him and he turned to find a door open.

 

He slipped in, grateful for the cool air and plush seating. Just as he closed the door, he realized who he was there with. He stared at the man who raised a single eyebrow. Augustine tried to say something, anything, but it died in his throat.

 

“M'sieur Sycamore.” Lysandre Belisle looked at him with a tablet in hand and Augustine watched as he casually flicked a thumb across the screen.

 

He hadn't been making officious cronies waiting. He'd been making Belisle's bodyguards and _Belisle himself_ wait. He wondered what the social protocol for dying of embarrassment was. Belisle probably knew it.

 

“M-M'sieur.” Aramis' ball twitched and his hand clamped down on it. _Not now_ , he prayed. “I... apologize for the wait.”

 

Belisle gave a smile that would look more fitting on a Seviper. “I understand being weary,” the man said. “You've travelled a ways, after all.”

 

Should he fake it, he wondered. He imagined crumpling into a heap and almost laughed, the tinge of hysteria almost becoming full-blown panic. “Still, M'sieur.” Augustine forced himself to lean back and relax; the smile on his face wavered. “Ah...” He drew a blank though the smile stayed in place, strained.

 

The man let the silence hang for several moments and he knew he'd be paying for making the man wait for a long while. “Let us discuss business-- unless you have business to attend to? I do not wish to hurry you, M'sieur.”

 

Let Dialga intervene, he prayed, and let him do this day again. He would rather step into the car half-naked and unshaved, Parisot at his heels, then this. “None, M'sieur Belisle. Again, my apologies for being tardy.”

 

Belisle waved a hand as Aramis' ball spasmed. “Your apology is appreciated, but unnecessary.” The car shifted into a smooth glide. “A refreshment?”

 

There was no good answer. “If it is no trouble,” he hedged. Belisle placed the data pad on the soft seats and reached beneath to where solid-looking wood panels were. It cracked open at a light touch, revealing a small refrigerator. His stomach gurgled and he regretted the silence of the car. Belisle said nothing and Augustine forced himself not to make excuses.

 

_I'm not a pig_ , he tried to project. _I'm a professional researcher acclaimed in my field_. _I'm not hungry_ , he informed his stomach. It gurgled again and Belisle paused before drawing another item out of the fridge.

 

Death, he reflected, would be a blessing.

 

He took the glass of white wine with murmured thanks. It'd been some time since he'd drank before noon, which he fully blamed on too much time in Unova. Belisle refrained from drinking and Augustine followed his lead, letting the wine breathe.

 

“I confess, I am surprised to see you've returned to Kalos.” He glanced up at the man opposite him. “I believe it has been-- what? Six years?”

 

“Seven,” he offered. “It has been difficult to find time between work.”

 

Belisle let the lie pass, though not without a knowing look. “Yes, you've been quite busy! I daresay you've become one of Professor Oak's more notable students.”

 

His smile faltered. “Thank you, M'sieur. That is high praise.” Covering up the dented smile with the glass, he adjusted how he sat. The professors had been full of advice on how to deal with the Kalosian rich, their expertise refined after years of funding battles, but he found himself floundering in practise. Confidence, Birch had said, would get you where charm couldn't. Juniper had advised coasting on good looks. Oak had only taken more sake.

 

He felt more than ever Oak's student with every sip.

 

Belisle paused, considering, and Augustine realized again how out of his depth he was. He'd handed off a conversational killer and not noticed. “I did not expect my arrival to be heralded with such fanfare!” If Belisle did not burst out laughing, Augustine considered his conversational duty done.

 

“You have quite the reputation to proceed you, M'sieur. Very few of our luminaries return.” Belisle gave him an indecipherable look. “And it seems you wish to return on a more permanent basis, as well.”

 

Aramis shook but he ignored it. “I do.” He hesitated for a moment. “Kalos is largely unexplored,” he offered.

 

Belisle nodded, his eyes focusing with sudden intensity on Augustine. “In many ways.”

 

Relief travelled through him. Parfum Palace had been an epicentre of denial at Kalos' state and the implication that it was far from cutting-edge on the subject of research, let alone Pokemon, had insulted as though Augustine had dropped his pants in the middle of an opera. “Mm. I believe the last paper of note from Kalos was four years ago. Our universities, they try, but...” He forced himself to trail off, unwilling to sling muck at his colleagues over much. They tried, but the funding was not there and, in many cases, people lacked the training.

 

It was an inherent flaw in a system built to produce mildly knowledgeable bureaucrats.

 

“They lack the resources,” Belisle finished. “As does most of Kalos.” As though the world heard the comment, the car bounced off a hole in the road that even its refined engineering couldn't cover.

 

Augustine shrugged. “All money flows to Unova and Kanto. Excepting a few notables, of course.”

 

Belisle smiled, but it was grim. “You have a political mind for a researcher. You believe that your facility will help?”

 

His gut reaction beat his hesitation to the punch. “Yes.” He licked his lips. “There's no alternative to the universities. As much as I enjoy the company of my colleagues at Aix-Lumiose, they have become trapped in outside research. They read it, apply it to Kalosian Pokemon, and then declare it new research. We recycle when we should be innovating.”

 

“There is beauty in innovation,” Belisle said, and Augustine tried not to blink. “Kalos languishes, and its beauty passes on. Ugly minds build a country made not for people and Pokemon, but profit and their own pleasure. It is an empire of refuse, built on suffering and pain, and things have only worsened since you left.”

 

He'd heard mentions of Belisle's condition, but he'd not realized it was this bad. “I see?” he offered. Something in Belisle's expression shuttered closed and Augustine regretted his words.

 

“If you are amenable, M'sieur Sycamore, I shall fund your facility. On one condition, however.”

 

Augustine held his hands open wide, his half-full glass swishing with the movement. “You need merely name it.” Don't make the facility tied to the company, he willed. Of all the things he could withstand, that was not one of them. There would be enough attention already from Belisle's enemies.

 

Though he wondered, truly, if the facility would be Lysandre Labs' in all but name.

 

“I wish to become your student.”

 

The air vanished from his lungs. A high price for what was, to Belisle, so very little. “You flatter me!” He couldn't say yes. It was too much, and there were still other people to tap. Belisle was not the only man with money in Kalos. He just feared that Belisle would be the only one with enough vision. “I will have to think such a proposition over.” Accepting it meant accepting a target being painted on his back. Corporate sabotage was far from unheard of at public facilities, but having Belisle as a student would mean wading into the thick of it. It also meant tying his fortunes directly to Lysandre Labs.

 

Belisle did not look surprised. “Take your time... Professor.”

 

There was nothing to say, so Augustine said nothing as he downed the rest of his wine. The ride to Lumiose was silent. Belisle did not look at him again, not even once.


End file.
